


The Mirror's Mirror

by x_art



Category: White Collar
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 10:30:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art





	The Mirror's Mirror

Peter jogged up the steps, key already out, poised for a quick insert, turn, and in. Because it was Friday, damnit. Friday, and he was home after not being home for eleven miserable, soul-sucking days.

And that was too much for any man. Especially a man who was three days away from his first anniversary and just the thought, the anticipation, made his smile broaden to a silly grin as he slipped in and closed the door.

He sat his keys on the side table and listened.

The house was still with a thick kind of stillness, but it didn’t fool him. There was stillness and then there was _stillness, _and this was the latter. The house might be quiet, but that didn’t mean it was empty.

“Honey?”

No reply, but he hadn’t expected it. He did a quick recon of the living room, dining room, kitchen, just in case.

Everything was as it should be, in its place, spotless, like something out of a magazine. Even the new glass piece, the one he’d initially objected to—and that still irked him, that he’d been too distracted and hadn’t recognized its quality when they’d first seen it in the gallery. It now sat serenely in the center of the dining room table as if it had been made for the room.

But that was art—sometimes he got it, sometimes he didn’t.

He slung his jacket over a chair and went upstairs, hurrying at first, then slowing down as he approached the landing. The silence up here was even more denseand his heart began to pound. Even after a year of marriage he wasn’t used to it, wasn’t used to the surprise of coming home to—

“Honey,” he called out, making it comical and funny, because he knew what kind of reaction that would get. “I’m home.”

Again, there was no reply, but he’d been heard. He knew it.

He crept down the hallway to the back room and leaned against the doorjamb. The afternoon sun streamed brightly through the windows, almost making it impossible to see the figure at the desk. “Honey—”

“I heard you the first two times,” Neal said without looking up. He was at his desk, bent over a large book, magnifying glass in one hand. He’d already changed out of his suit and was wearing a pair of jeans, a faded black t-shirt, and no shoes. Probably because Peter was coming home today, because he knew there was nothing more erotic to Peter than jeans and t-shirts and bare feet. “And that joke got old two weeks after our wedding, remember?”

“I remember it was more like seventeen days. We were in Mexico—”

“Peter,” Neal said with a sigh. He closed his book and turned, looking at Peter over his glasses. “You know how I feel about things like ‘honey,’ and ‘sweetheart,’ and, God forbid, _‘hon.’ _

“I do.” It was something they were still working on: Neal’s limits and Peter’s need for no limits.

But there were always ways around that, little tricks he’d learned long ago. He reached for the first buckle on his shoulder holster and slipped the leather free. Neal tried to hide his reaction, but Peter knew him too well; if he were any closer, he’d see Neal’s pupils dilate, hear his soft swallow.

His heart jerked in response and he reached for the next buckle, but slowly, so his fingers wouldn’t shake. “Did you miss me?”

Neal leaned back, his elbow crushing a few pages of his book. The book he'd just purchased for such a large sum, that he wouldn't tell Peter. “What do you think?”

“I’m thinking, yes.” Peter drew his weapon and laid it on the little side table next to the door. The table was one of Neal’s first purchases after they’d moved in together. It was almost two hundred and twenty years old, the surface soft with age, and Neal generally treated it like a baby.

But today he didn’t blink, didn’t say, _‘Peter, there are better, cheaper, places for that gun,’ _and Peter felt like crowing.

And then felt like growling when Neal took off his glasses and, without taking his eyes from Peter’s, hooked them over the edge of vase he used for his paintbrushes. And then stretched out his legs; his long, long legs. “What about you? Did you miss me?”

Peter blinked, trying to focus on the conversation and not Neal’s legs, not his sexy bare feet. It should be illegal, having sexy feet, shouldn’t it? “Between all those fun meetings and the chase from airport to airport? What do you think?” He loosened his tie.

Neal smiled, soft but not sweet, parroting, “I'm thinking, yes.”

“Between bad coffee, even worse motel rooms because Hughes says we have a budget to meet?” He unfastened his collar.

“Yes.”

“And what about—

“Peter. Come here.”

“Nope. You have to—”

“Peter,” Neal interrupted again, this time firm and impatient. “Come here.” And he held out his hand.

Peter was there. Covering the short distance in a two strides, then over Neal to straddle him, one leg, then the other. The chair creaked with their combined weight and Neal breathed a surprised,_ “Oof,” _but Peter covered that as well. Soft kisses at first, almost just nuzzling, but then little bites and this was another thing he wasn’t used to—it was always amazing, how Neal tasted, how he _felt._

Neal moaned and opened his mouth, taking Peter in, rocking back so suddenly they hit into the desk with a thump. Peter slid, would have fallen, except Neal caught his thighs at the right time.

Another new, not-new shock—Neal hid a lot of muscle underneath those beautiful suits and it had been a shock the first time Peter had tested that strength. A strength that made him feel oddly weak, insanely strong, both at the same time.

“Babe?” Neal murmured into his mouth.

“Yeah?” Said absently—Neal had eaten something sweet recently, maybe a peach.

“Get up.”

“Huh?”

“Get up. To go—”

Peter kissed Neal once more, then pulled away and stroked his hair from his forehead. It was shorter, wasn’t it? Something to ask about when he wasn’t so crazy with lust. “Yeah. C’mon.” He leveraged up and pulled Neal with him, dragging him out of the room backwards, fingers hooked in belt loops, leading him down the hall.

Their bedroom was cool after the study and the air felt wonderful on his skin as Neal finished unbuttoning his shirt. He shivered, then shivered again when he thought of what was to come—a parade of memories he’d only taken out a few times while on the road, so worried he’d do something stupid, say something stupid. But he was free now, free to touch and be touched and just the idea made him moan out loud.

Neal inhaled sharply, angling in to kiss his collarbone, but it was too much. Peter pushed him away, to the bed and climbed on top, already moving, thrusting.

It had, after all, been eleven days.

And he waited for Neal to slow him down, to say, _‘What’s the hurry, we have all night?’ _because he was always the cool one, the one who never rushed, never worried.

But yeah, he must have missed Peter as much as Peter missed him because he said nothing. He just flipped them both, rolling until Peter was on his back.

Peter grinned in surprise and let Neal do all the work, stripping them both efficiently, quickly, somehow never letting go entirely, although how that was possible, he couldn’t figure. But that was Neal for you, always—

_“Jesus,”_ he hissed when Neal grabbed his wrists, bit his chin, and pinned him to the bed.

“Yes,” Neal murmured.

“You drive me crazy.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Peter wanted to ask, to demand_, ‘Fuck me,” _but that would take too much time and he’d waited long enough. He wrapped his hand around Neal’s cock, his arm around Neal’s back, and got to work.

It was over in four and a half minutes.

 

***

He was in that place, that perfect place of there but _not _there, when he felt a hand on his forehead wiping away the sweat, combing back his hair.

“Hey?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“Yes?”

“How come you get to say things like, _‘Babe,’_ and I can’t?”

“Because it sounds better coming from me.”

There was a good argument there, just waiting to happen, but he was too tired. And too glad to be here, in his own house, in his own bed, with his own husband. He sighed contentedly and stroked Neal’s shoulder.

“I guess you really did miss me,” Neal whispered. He was half on, half off, and his breath was cool on Peter’s chest.

“I guess I did.”

“Yeah, eleven days is too long. Next time I’ll come with you.”

Peter snorted and opened his eyes. “On a case?”

“Sure. I’ve helped you before. This time it will just be up close and personal.” He rubbed his cheek against Peter’s chest and added, “Just as long as I don’t have to shoot a gun.”

“Won’t Robertson object?” He pictured it—no more counting the hours, no more long phone calls. It wouldn’t happen, of course, but it was still fun to imagine.

“You know I set my own hours. The institute doesn't care where I do my work as long as it gets done.”

“Speaking of…” Peter slid out from under Neal and rolled to his side. They hadn’t yet turned on the lamp, but his eyes had adjusted and he could easily see Neal’s expression, open and calm, without that barrier he only ever let fall when they were alone together. “How’s the project going?”

Neal made a face and turned on his side, as well. “It could be better. Robertson is holding up the shipment. He says the provenances still aren’t proved.”

Peter ran his thumb over Neal’s eyebrow, loving the way he smiled in response. “Which they are, right?”

It was Neal’s turn to snort. “Of course they are. I spent two years researching those pieces. Everything’s fine.”

“Wish I could help you.”

“Well, maybe you can…” Neal’s smile changed to a smirk. He pushed up on one elbow and slung his leg over Peter’s thigh. “Remember that forgery case you helped me with, last year in California?”

“Yeeaah?” Peter drew it out. He knew what was coming and he’d probably end up saying yes, but it was always fun making Neal work for it.

“And that archivist from the Tate? The one that discovered the forgery?”

“Monsieur Raul. How could I forget?”

“Exactly. I was thinking you could ask him to verify my findings.”

He had the nerve to lower his eyelashes in that way that had trapped Peter in the first place, flirting, seducing, and Peter wanted to laugh, but didn’t because the hell of it was, it worked. Every damn time. “I don’t get why you just don’t tell Robertson to back the hell off.”

It was an honest observation, uncolored by love or loyalty. Yes, Neal was younger than most of the stuffed shirts that Peter had met at the various functions he’d been dragged to, but he was smarter than all of them put together.

“I want to keep my job, Peter. At least for a little while longer.”

“I don’t like seeing you kowtow to that clown. You’re worth ten of him.”

Neal dropped his Scheherazade routine and pursed his lips. “That’s nice of you, but in this case, it’s Robertson’s call, and for him, years translate to experience, experience translates to authority, and authority translates to being right. And I don’t have the years. Not yet. But,” he kissed the corner of Peter’s mouth, and said, “you’re avoiding the question.”

“It wasn’t a question, it was a suggestion.”

Neal sighed. “Peter…”

“Ask Raul yourself.” Still teasing and he thought, ‘_Wait for it…’_

“Peter,” Neal said as if to a child, “I saw the way he looked at you. It was hard to miss. He followed you around like he’d been lost in the desert for forty days and you were a tall glass of water. He’d do it if you asked.”

“Ah-ha. The truth comes out.”

“Yeah, the truth comes out.”

Peter kissed him because it was little enough to ask. He’d do a lot more, and worse, where Neal was concerned. “Okay. It’s too late now, but I’ll call tomorrow.”

Neal sighed happily and lay back down. “And how about you? How was Atlanta?” He ran a finger over Peter’s chest, over and over again in a pattern only he could see.

Peter shrugged. “Atlanta was Atlanta.” And then, because he knew that would never satisfy Neal, he added, “No, seriously, it was okay. We ended up in this tiny airport outside of town, about a hundred miles away from the location we were given.”

“What happened?”

“She gave us the slip, that’s what happened.”

“Did she have the emeralds?”

Peter frowned. It still rankled, that she’d outwitted him so thoroughly, so completely. “I don’t know. Jones thought he saw that character, the short guy that’s been seen with her a few times.”

“The troll?”

“I think Jones calls him the gnome, but, yeah, him. Anyway, I went after her and Jones went after the short guy. She lost me after she went to the ladies. Jones lost the gnome somewhere in the baggage area. He bitched about it the whole trip back.”

“The gnome or Jones?”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

Neal stroked Peter’s neck, saying soothingly, “You’ll catch her.”

“I hope so.”

“She’ll make a mistake and you’ll be there.”

“I don’t know. She’s quick on her feet, and has seemingly unlimited resources.” He sighed and reached for Neal’s hand and held it to his heart. “And she’s very, very smart.”

“And I know how much you like smart.”

Peter smiled at the possessiveness in Neal’s voice, the obvious pride, as well. He pulled him in again and they kissed.

Neal was right. Elizabeth Halden might be a world-class thief, might be wicked smart and cautious like a fox, but she’d slip up.

And when she did, he thought as Neal kissed a warm line over his chin, as he went willingly when Peter rolled him to his back, he’d be there. Waiting.

 

 

 

_fin._


End file.
